Chapter Text
They leave under a cover of darkness, the journey of train and ferry carefully planned between emergency Venturer meetings. Gerald arranges it all for them, quietly booking tickets and calling around for lodging while Taggie works through her diary, cancelling Christmas bookings and wincing at the thought of income lost.
It is worth it, she thinks, staring at Rupert in the driver’s seat. His face is gaunt, stress eating away at him with every passing day. This is the right choice, the necessary choice. Some things matter more than victory, despite what her father may think.
She can only pray that he will forgive her for this.
⋆˙⟡
Most of the journey is spent in silence, tense but not awkward. She never feels the need to fill the gaps, enjoying that they can exist without needless chatter. Rupert sleeps for most of the train ride, the dark bags under his eyes lightened slightly when they reach Holyhead. The ferry is awful, like always, causing a churning in her stomach that leaves her clammy. This time, however, she is not left to deal with it on her own. Rupert is there, rubbing a hand on her back as she curls up in the cheap plastic seat.
“I knew we should have booked a cabin,” he murmurs, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Why didn’t you tell me you get seasick?”
She laughs, despite the violent roiling of her tummy. “Everyone gets seasick, it’s a rite of passage. You just…deal with it.”
He bites his tongue, holding back what are surely outrageous thoughts like Campbell-Blacks don’t get seasick. She doubts his family has ever travelled by ferry before, certainly not in the choppy waters of the Irish Sea. Instead he just rubs her back, humming softly until she slips into a fitful sleep. It isn’t restful, she’s shaken awake by the crush of waves and the sound of a baby wailing somewhere across the deck, but it helps. He helps, the smell of his cologne clinging to the collar of his shirt and filling her nostrils when the briney sea water starts to overwhelm her senses.
Their final leg of travel is by car, two hours along country roads that make her think of the Cotswolds. They pick up lunch in town, landing in Ireland just after noon, trading each other sandwich halves when she declares her chosen egg salad to be too dilly. Rupert just laughs, handing her turkey on rye bread with a smile. “Egg is never worth the risk,” he says with a smile, tearing a packet of crisps open. “Learned that the hard way.”
He shares little anecdotes about life on the road, the mundane bits of showjumping that no one else ever asks about. She devours them, asking question after question for the simple thrill of hearing his voice endlessly. The best moment is when he laughs so hard the car swerves slightly, his eyes closing with joy, when she asks if they ever got tired of traffic and rode their horses across highways.
“Never, never,” he gasps, laughter caught in his chest. “But we really should have. Would have saved a hell of a lot of time.”
It is in those moments, when he laughs at her silly questions but gives serious answers, that she knows she is in love with him. He doesn’t placate her, doesn’t tell her to think about it, Taggie, use your brain. Something about the way her brain works makes sense to him, her ways of thinking aligned with his own. Maybe they were meant to find each other, two puzzle pieces with bent edges somehow fitting together.
The streets start to look familiar as they reached the Welcome to Carbury sign, landmarks of her youth allowing her to direct Rupert to their destination. Left at the general store, then straight until the old mill. If we reach the forest, we went too far. It all comes back to her, something like confidence filling her veins as they turn into a dirt driveway. Belonging, she thinks, peering out the window until a familiar figure graces the doorway. Home was here, home was Nan.
“Mo stóirín!” Nan cries out, arms wide open, and Taggie runs for her. She smells like powdered sugar and chamomile tea, the scent immediately bringing her back to childhood. Taggie lets herself fall into the embrace, the immediate comfort of her grandmother’s arms erasing all the pain of the last year.
There is no clearing of throats, no pushing for introductions. Rupert simply pulls their bags from the trunk, busying himself with the fraying edge of her carpet bag while her grandmother murmurs softly in her ear. “Oh, mamó, I missed you so much. This is Rupert, my, um, my…”
There are no words for what he is, neighbour and friend too casual. Boyfriend or lover don’t fit either, their feelings caught up in the tangle of the franchise and her father. In the end it doesn’t matter, not when Nan pulls him into a tight hug of her own.
“Your Rupert, yes. I’ve heard a lot about you, boy. I’m Nan.” It’s so straightforward, no room for argument. “Come in, come in, you both must be exhausted.”
The cottage is exactly as she remembers it, the layout virtually untouched by time. She dreams of it, more often than she would admit to her siblings, the quiet country life her mental solace during their years in London. The fireplace, the mismatched kitchen chairs, the collection of stoneware mugs that line the counter. It is home, in a way Fulham and the Priory never quite accomplished. She watches as Rupert toes off his shoes, quietly looking around with wide eyes. Part of her thinks to apologize, to say I know it’s not what you’re used to but it’s mine. But he never stops surprising her.
Crouching to the floor, he offers his hand to the curious orange cat lounging on the sofa. “That’s Aengus,” Taggie murmurs, watching with bated breath as the cat gives him a cursory sniff, then a soft lick to the back of his hand. “Roger is around here somewhere, always hides when new people come around.”
“Like Blue,” he agrees, stroking two fingers along the top of the cat’s head. Aengus gives a purr, butting further into his hand, immediately won over. “Blue is one of my dogs, a lurcher,” he tells Nan, eyes trained on the cat still. “They’re with a friend of mine while I… while we visit you.”
And bless her grandmother, she doesn’t beat around the bush. “I may live in country, but we still get wireless reception. I know all about your memoirs, dearie.”
Rupert immediately flushes, tension pulling across his shoulders as he prepares to defend himself. It’s a posture she has seen more often than not lately, a cobra rising in self-defence. Everyone in Rutshire had been witness to Beattie’s slow attack, culminating in a final reveal the first week of December. It left the bid in shambles, debates over whether or not to fully strike Rupert from the board leaving him on the outskirts of his own consortium. Worse had been Helen, vicious phone calls lasting hours and ending with the children spending another Christmas without seeing their father. It had been that very call, the colour drained from Rupert’s face and tears leaving ruddy tracks on his cheeks, that put her plan in action.
“I can find somewhere else to stay,” he mumbles, uncharacteristically bashful. “I don’t want to cause any trouble, I just needed… I need breathing room from it all.”
“And my son was of no help, I assume.” She can’t help it, the tone makes Taggie snort with laughter. She loves her Nan, she really does, but the woman has always been less than impressed with Declan’s career. “You’ll stay right here, boy. A little sex never scared me. Lord knows the girls at church need something new to giggle over.”
Just like that, it’s settled. Coats are shrugged off, hung with care on the hooks her Daideo carved by hand when the house was built. Nan shoos them up the stairs, tells them to unpack and settle in. “I’ve got coddle on the stove for dinner, should be ready around six.” Then, a cheekier tinge to her voice. “Don’t do anything you don’t want the papers to know about!”
“Nan!” Taggie cries with a laugh, the flush in her cheeks certainly extending up to her hairline. “Don’t start! I told you I’m sleeping on the couch.”
When she turns back to Rupert, halfway up the stairs and tracing a gentle finger over a framed photo, his mouth is pulled into a frown. “I’ll sleep on the couch,” he argues, stubborn as a mule. “I’m a guest, after all.”
“A guest with a bad shoulder,” she reminds him gently, pushing slightly on his back to urge him up the stairs. She knows what photos line the walls, doesn’t want him looking too closely at the fragments of her childhood, not on their first day. “Besides, I’ve slept on the couch before. It’s not too bad. And Nan’s an early riser, I don’t want her disturbing you.”
She knows neither of them will concede, a silent stalemate in place as they reach the bedroom. It is just as she remembers it, the double bed covered in a quilt and window seat stuffed with a cushion. The great oak hutch sits in the corner, and when she pulls the doors open, memories of her life here flood her mind. “I used to hide in here,” she whispers, aware that her audience is listening intently. “Cait and Paddy, they thought Nan’s room was the best, it looks out on the barn. But up here, this was my space. My secret place.” Carefully, she traces the carved letters in the hutch door, the jagged AO splattered with tiny flecks of red. The scar on her thumb is still visible, a thin white line where her stolen knife had slipped from the wood and split her skin.
“It feels like you.” Rupert’s voice breaks through the memory, of blood running down her hand and the fear that her mother would never take her back if she knew about her awful mistake. “Warm, welcoming. I love it.”
“Please,” she murmurs, turning to her bag and pulling out the sweaters she shoved in haphazardly the night before. “You’ve stayed at the Ritz. This must feel like Mary’s feckin’ manger to you.”
It’s only when she’s almost entirely unpacked, her feeble collection of jeans and sweaters placed with care in the old dresser drawers, that he responds. “I’d be happy in a cave, if you were there. It’s not about the place. It’s you, Tag.”
Taggie has only ever felt truly wanted by one person in this world, the woman downstairs who is almost certainly waiting with a mug of spiked hot cocoa and a million questions about their guest. Before she does something utterly stupid, like throw herself into his arms, she turns on her heel and hurries down the stairs.
⋆˙⟡
Ireland is nothing like he imagined. Taggie had given him a brief rundown on Carbury, the fact that sheep outnumbered people and the rolling hills everyone raved about were more brown than green. But what she didn't mention is the way she comes alive here.
He remembers Taggie talking about pace once, the way she moved slower than her family members. “They’re all so brilliant,” she had murmured, carefully manipulating Venturer brochures into perfect tri-folds. “They know what to say and w-what to do, to solve any problem. Not just Daddy, but Pad and Caitlin too.”
Her face had crumpled, brows pulling together. It made him want to reach for her, pull her into his arms and murmur softly that she was perfect, better than the rest of her family combined. “It’s gotten better, out here. I think I just wasn’t meant for London, or any big city. The rest of them are a mile a minute and I’m just…slower.”
Now, seeing her in Nan’s cottage, he knows what the problem was. None of the other O’Hara’s knew how to slow down, savour things. Not like Taggie did, clearly inherited from her grandmother. Watching the two of them make bread together, slowly kneading the ingredients and waiting patiently for the dough to rise, was eye-opening. Taggie never needed to reach a faster pace. She was correct all along, moving at the speed she knew in her bones.
They both swear that their family bread recipe is the best on the island, passed down through generations of O’Hara women. “Not that we ever stopped a man from attempting to make it,” Nan says with a wry grin. “My Callum was known to attempt a loaf or two in desperate times, but it never turned out quite right. He lacked that special touch that my Taggie has.”
And he knows exactly what she means, the magic Taggie imbues in each meal she makes. Even the most basic finger sandwiches were just better when she prepared them, turning the Rutshire dinner party scene completely on its head with her catering. Part of him felt guilty, dragging her away from home during the most lucrative time of year for her business. The selfish, awful voice in his head adored it. He loved that she ran with him, welcomed him into this quiet corner of her world, just the two of them and Nan. He misses things, like his children, the constant companionship of his dogs and the familiar corners of Penscombe. But he wouldn’t trade this experience for anything, the undivided attention of his very own angel on Earth.
Dinner is outstanding, the rich stew paired with perfectly crusty bread. He heaps praise on both women, watching as they both blush. The high points of their cheeks turn pink, one of the many similarities he has noticed between Taggie and her grandmother. The shape of their eyes, the curve of their mouth. Intangible things too, the way they blow on each sip of stew even well after it cools and the way they toss their heads back when they laugh. It’s like a glimpse into his future, the Taggie of now beside Taggie in forty years. He can only pray for the privilege of seeing the vision come true, to bear witness to each hour that she grows.
He successfully shoos the two of them to the couch, pouring sherry into mismatched glasses and insisting they catch up without him. “Let me do the dishes,” he insists, watching as Taggie gives him a grateful look over Nan’s shoulder. “It’s the least I can do, after such a wonderful meal.”
Only bits and pieces of their conversation reach him, laughter and gasps filling the air in equal measure. It warms him far more than the stew did, listening to Taggie relax after a meal rather than worry about cleaning up. Scrubbing each dish carefully, he pays special attention to the silverware, polishing each piece when the giggles continue in the other room. When the sink drains, bubbles slowly circling the basin, he lets himself meander into the living room and grin at the sight in front of him.
Curled on the couch, wrapped in a hand knit blanket, Taggie beams at him. “Nan says there’s a bottle baby at the farm next door, she’ll be picking it up tomorrow!” Her hair glows under the dim lights, a halo around her flushed face. “Isn’t that sweet, a little lamb for Christmas.”
Idly, he wonders how he they will get the lamb back to Rutshire. Because he knows Taggie, her big heart compassionate beyond belief, and he fears she won’t leave Ireland without their new friend.
Nan gives him a knowing look, glass tipped in his direction. “Don’t worry, Rupert, my little treasure has raised plenty of bottle babes over the years. She doesn’t get too attached.”
Taggie just pouts, bottom lip sticking out petulantly. “Yeah, Rupert, I don’t get attached.”
And he can’t help it, he laughs. A full belly laugh, teeth showing and his stomach jumping. “I’m sorry, angel, truly. But I think it’s fair to say you get a little attached. Remember the field mouse last month? And feeding the badgers in October?”
They banter back and forth, arguing about whether setting out food scraps for local critters counts as attachment, when he realizes Nan has grown quiet. Her eyes are glassy, a sad smile on her face. Suddenly, her hand is on his, squeezing gently. “Callum—Taggie’s grandfather, he used to call me that. Angel.”
It feels like the air vanishes from the room, a knot forming in his chest. He knew the man had passed many years ago, before Taggie was born, but didn’t want to pry. Staying silent for a moment, he squeezes her hand back. “I’ve called her that since I met her. And I mean it. She’s the best person I’ve ever known.”
He excuses himself then, a kiss pressed to Taggie’s head as he passes to get ready for bed. Walking slowly up the stairs, he can hear a tiny sob, followed by her quiet voice. “You never told me that, about Daideo.”
The conversation isn’t meant for him, as much as he yearns to listen in. Instead he pulls on his pyjamas, brushes his teeth and runs a hand over the stubble that has begun to line his cheeks. He didn’t pack a razor, he realizes, forgotten in the flurry of readying himself and arranging for the dogs to stay with the Bodkins. Looking at the bedroom, he knows he will grow cold without the familiar weight of Beaver in bed with him. Maybe that was why he was so insistent on taking the couch, sleep likely to escape him no matter what.
Taggie appears in the doorway shortly after he pulls on a sweater, the corner furnace slowly warming the room. “I just came to get ready for bed,” she murmurs, eyes trained on the floor. “I’ll be quick.”
“I don’t mind taking the couch,” he insists again, hoping that her stubborn streak will fade and she will take something for herself for once. “I really don’t mind.”
She bites her lip, eyes darting between the bed and the little ensuite. Nervous as a foal, he thinks, her weight shifting between both legs. Finally, he pulls his trump card. “This is your room, Tag. Yours. I don’t—I don’t know the full history of it. Why the only pictures on the walls are of you, not your siblings. And you don’t have to tell me, not right now. But I’d like to know. And I’d like you to be comfortable, in your space.”
A blur whirls through the room, Taggie landing in his arms before he can blink. “We can s-share,” she mumbles, face tucked into his neck. “The bed. And stories, anything you want to know. It’s only fair.” A little laugh huffs out of her, the exhale tickling his skin. “Since I know all of your skeletons.”
“Whatever you want,” Rupert vows, secretly swearing it for now and forever. They will exchange firmer vows one day, in front of God and their friends, he knows it in his bones. But this one, this private promise of what Taggie wants, she will get, is the best he can do for now. “I’ll even put up a pillow wall, keep my space and all that.”
Her hand grips his back, nails digging through the sweatshirt he threw on. “I don’t want space,” she confesses. “I think we’ve had enough space.”
Whatever Taggie wants, he reminds himself. He gives her a squeeze, arms tight around her waist, before releasing. “Go get ready for bed. What side do you want?”
By the time she re-appears, dressed in green plaid pyjamas that dwarf her frame, he has tucked himself beneath the quilt. A single lamp is the only light that remains, illuminating her shuffle to the bed, the tiny smile that she can’t quite keep away. “I’m really glad you’re here,” she whispers, sliding under the covers. “This place is…it’s special to me. But I really want to share it with you.”
She turns the lamp off, the planes of her face only illuminated by the faint light from the moon. The sight of her, tucked into bed beside him, fully clothed and smiling softly, is the greatest thing he’s ever seen. “I can’t wait,” he murmurs, allowing himself to be brave under the cover of darkness.
It is, without a doubt, the best sleep he has gotten in years.
⋆˙⟡
Taggie wakes up and immediately gets to work. A batch of roly-poly is prepped and proofed, slid into the oven as the neighbour’s rooster crows. She pulls on Nan’s wellies, wandering out to the chicken coop to collect eggs and sprinkle feed in the yard. The Christmas decorations are even pulled from the basement, cardboard boxes with blocky letters that read garlund and bobbles stacked in the living room.
She needs to keep moving. If she stops, lets herself think for too long, she’ll linger on the night before. The warmth of Rupert wrapped around her, his arms dwarfing her form and keeping her safe from lingering doubts. Despite their long day, she had lain awake for hours, wondering if they made the right choice. It wasn’t until he started snoring softly in her ear, a quiet rumble that she would be hard-pressed to forget, that she knew they did the right thing.
It's the echo of his snores that has her pulling the boxes open, untangling paper chains and tinsel across the floor. Roger, brave boy that he is, ventures out from under the couch to chase a pompom across the room, hissing when his brother attempts to steal it. Nan finds her cross legged on the ground, each strand of decor laid out carefully in a pattern that surely only makes sense to her.
“Morning,” she mumbles, retying knot at the end of a strand of paper leaves. “Kettle’s still warm, and roly-poly is in the oven. Should be ready in half an hour.”
“Thank you, ducky.” Nan pours herself a cup of tea, settling in at the counter and watching as Taggie turns the living room into a Christmas card. “Do you want any help, my love? I’m meeting the Murphys at noon, should be back within an hour. But I can be yours until then.”
She waves her off, determined to decorate on her own. The main floor goes quickly, nails stuck in the walls above each doorway, waiting to be decked with holly. Everything has its proper place, more than a decade’s worth of Christmases spent in this house turning decorating into muscle memory. Nan always said they could change things, order new bits that fit the glitz and glamour of the seventies, but Taggie liked the heirlooms. Delicate paper drawings hung on string, the edges fraying with time and love. Her very favourite, a strand of pompoms mixed with paper poinsettia leaves, always goes outside her door. She saves it for last, trying to quietly drag the kitchen chair up the stairs without waking Rupert.
One of the ends is tangled, hopelessly knotted in multiple places, leaving the end too short to reach the nail. Stood on the chair, she tries to untangle the mess, frowning as she wobbles dangerously and the door opens.
“Do you need a hand?” Rupert approaches quietly, gently placing a hand on her hip, steadying her without being asked. He does that often, she thinks, provides a hand without prompting; always willing to carry a tray or open a door. It shouldn’t make her blush, a simple act of kindness that could easily be offered by Freddie or Bas. The difference is they are never there, and Rupert is. His hand is the one that reaches for her, not them.
Shifting her weight, she tries to reach for the nail again, but wobbles slightly. Suddenly she is weightless, lifted right from the chair into his arms. “You could have asked,” he says gruffly, arms holding her aloft. “Here, can you reach?”
With Rupert’s hands around her waist, she successfully hooks her garland on the doorframe. She is reluctant to tell him, to be lowered to the ground and out of his embrace. How long has it been since she was held up, lifted in the air without a care? Forget Carbury, Rupert’s hands might be her new favourite place in the world.
“I got it,” Taggie whispers, reluctant to be returned to the ground. She wishes she had started here, created an excuse to remain in Rupert’s arms as she hung the other decorations. Hindsight, she thinks. But his hands tighten, pinky finger brushing under the hem of her pyjama top and stroking the skin underneath until goosebumps rise. A shiver rolls through her, impossible to hide when they are so close, the tiny tremors almost certainly shuddering against him. If he notices, he doesn’t bring it up, choosing instead to look up at the doorframe and admire her work.
“Wonderful job,” he remarks, voice soft and fond. “You just forgot one little thing.”
How would he know if she forgot something, she wonders, it’s his first time at the cottage? The thought slips away as he hauls her up over his shoulder, arm wrapped tightly around her waist. “The angel goes on top of the tree, right?” She can hear the grin in his voice, a drastic change from his tone of the past few weeks. Carefully bounding down the steps, he calls out to the main floor. “Oh Nan, is the tree up? I caught an angel, I think she’ll fit perfectly.”
Giggles escape her even as she feebly hits against his back, taking care to avoid the shoulder she knows still twinges with pain. “Rupert,” she laughs, feet kicking as he walks through the kitchen. “We don’t have the tree yet, we always pick one out on the twenty-third.”
“Oh alright,” Rupert sighs, knees creaking slightly as he crouches down, letting her climb gently off his shoulder. “I’ll let you fly free for now, angel.”
Nan snickers from her spot on the couch, eyes twinkling as she watches their exchange. “Sleep well then, Rupert?”
He moves through the kitchen easily, an overwhelming sense of he belongs here echoing in her chest. Pouring two mugs of tea, milk and sugar added to both cups, he gives them a smile. “Better than I have in ages, thank you. Is that roly-poly?”
“Mo stóirín was busy this morning, wasn’t she? Think you can keep her from climbing the walls when I head to the Murphy’s?” Her look is knowing, accusatory. Nan knows Taggie better than anyone in the world, knows when she is keeping herself busy to avoid hard conversations or dreaded tasks.
A cup of tea is held out for her, milky and sweet just how she likes it. “Thanks,” she mumbles, taking a sip and holding back a tiny moan. It’s perfect, just the right amount of milk and a hint of sugar. She’s never told Rupert how she likes her tea, often drinking it black at Venturer meetings. The milk always ran out before she could serve herself, various requests pulling her in a million different directions before she can add sugar. To have him make it perfectly, remembered from the rare occasions she is able to sit and actually enjoy a warm cuppa, makes her heart twinge uncomfortably. Nan gives her another look, brows raised. He’s a good man, her eyes say.
He really is a good man, a great man. Listening quietly as he asks Nan questions about the barn, the neighbouring farms and if there is anything he can do to help out around the house, she lets herself dream. Imagines a world where there is no franchise, no politics. Just Rupert and Taggie, in a little Irish cottage, living in the countryside. It’s the kind of dream she had as a girl, when the responsibilities of adulthood had not yet reared their heads. It will be her secret, the safe place she retreats to when the IBA results come through and reality seeps back into their adventure.
“…and Tag will show you the barn, though I assume you didn't bring work clothes. Never thought a Tory would cross my front door, but you seem like the sensible sort at least.” Nan’s voice breaks her from the fantasy, of little red-haired children opening gifts on Christmas morning, carried down the stairs on Rupert’s shoulder. Shaken from the vision, she nods dumbly at the others, agreeing with whatever plan has been concocted. “You’ll have to watch out for Susan, she’s a difficult girl.”
“Oh Nan, not Susan. You haven’t sold that wretched beast yet?” Rupert’s mouth falls open at her words, gawking at her unkind statement.
“Taggie O’Hara, blaspheming one of God’s creatures? I never thought I would see the day.” His words are playful, brows waggling at her. “That’s the real scandal, let me call the Scorpion.”
She can’t help it, she snorts loudly. “Please, Susan deserves every word. She’s a menace.” Standing from the couch, she offers him a hand, mug still cradled in her other. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”
Bundled in borrowed chore coats and wellies, they cross the yard slowly. Their hands are still tangled, Taggie notes happily, fingers clasped around his. The ring on his pinky is warm against her skin, a sensation she never expected. She always imagined it to be cold, chilling her flesh as he dragged his hands over her. She shivers, pushing down the fantasies that occupy her loneliest nights as they approach the barn.
“Are you cold?” Rupert’s voice is quiet, pulling away so that he can shake off his coat. It wraps around her easily, the sleeves dwarfing her hands. Then, because he’s still a bit spoiled, he mutters I knew I should have brought the Barbour. She wants to tease him, remind him that just because a coat is twice as expensive doesn’t mean it’s better, but they reach the barn and a haunting noise echoes from within.
“Susan,” she shudders, pushing the barn door open. Turning back to Rupert, she gives him a stern look. “Don’t get too close, don’t let her catch your fingers.” Pausing, she looks carefully at curly hair. “Don’t lean your head in to her pen. She likes hair.”
The little smirk he gives her is infuriating, she wants to kiss it off his lips. “I warned you,” she mutters, stepping inside the barn. Another shriek fills the air, Susan making her presence known. “Alright, alright, you demon. I’m right here.”
Behind her, she can hear Rupert burst into laughter. “A donkey,” he guffaws, the noise inelegant and absolutely intoxicating. “Your mortal enemy is a donkey.”
“She’s a demon,” Taggie hisses, crouching down beside a wandering barn cat and stroking its back. She can hear the geese towards the back of the barn, their jabbering sounds familiar and comforting. Welcome back, they say, welcome home.
Then, Susan makes herself known. She kicks the edge of her pen, the wooden fence and chicken wire barely containing her rage. Rupert approaches her, curiosity colouring his face. “She doesn’t seem that bad,” he remarks, holding a hand out for Susan to sniff. She snuffles at his fingers, then nips at his fingertips. “I’ve met much more fearsome beasts.”
Taggie can’t help but roll her eyes. “Well, for a six year old she was quite fera—ferocious. Bit my braid clean off.”
“She’s misunderstood,” Rupert coos at the beast, patting her flank like he does his horses. “But I can see how she might have made a bad impression.”
“I had a bowl cut for six months because of her!” The look he gives her at her outburst, those soft eyes and softer smile, makes the trauma almost worth it.
Turning away from the donkey, Rupert steps towards her, hand coming to her waist. “I’m sure it was precious,” his voice goes quiet, the gentle timber soothing her agitated nerves. “Everything about you is precious.”
She should kiss him. She wants to, desperately, to press her lips to his and let him pull sighs from her chest. But the geese are honking, two of the cats are hissing at each other, and Susan has that gleam in her eye, the one that precedes disaster. “Let’s go inside,” she says, letting her hands linger on his chest for a second, tracing patterns on his sweater. “I’d like to tell you more. About life here, my life here.”
⋆˙⟡
Nan leaves them shortly after they return from the barn, eyes twinkling as she reminds Taggie she shouldn’t be longer than an hour. “I expect you to be decent when I return,” the older woman says with a wink, a long red scarf wrapped around her neck. “No funny business on the couch.”
“Mamó!” Taggie shrieks, face buried in her hands. He can barely make out the flush in her cheeks between her fingers, bright red colouring her skin. He just laughs, throwing a wink back to Nan in response.
“We’ll be good, ma’am. I’m saving myself for marriage.” Her responding chuckle carries through the door, laughter following her down the sidewalk to her car. Taggie lets out a giggle as well, foot nudging his.
“You shouldn’t lie, not this close to Christmas.” She doesn’t mention the memoirs, his varied exploits colouring the pages of every major newspaper across England, but they hang like a noose. A reminder of why they are here, hiding in Ireland rather than preparing for the bid results with the rest of Venturer. His house is on the line, his reputation and dignity tied up in this dangerous game. But it doesn’t matter. All that he wants now is a quiet afternoon, an explanation of why Taggie’s fingerprints lingered on every inch of the cottage when neither of her siblings did.
Sensing the shift in mood, Taggie curls up further on the couch, drawing a pillow into her lap and slipping her feet under a blanket. Aengus, the sweet orange cat that reminded him so dearly of Beaver, wandered into her lap, making himself at home on the pillow. “I guess I should start at the beginning, huh?”
“I don’t want to pressure you,” he soothes, hand reaching for hers. They’ve done this often, since leaving England. Twined hands, their fingers tangling together and brushing against each other’s palms. He loves it, doesn’t want to ever let go. “Whatever you are open to sharing, I’ll listen to.”
She just nods, hair falling over her shoulder. The curls are extra wild, coiling around her face. She looks like a work of art, a Renaissance beauty come to life. Ophelia, Venus, all of them pale compared to her. Smiling sadly, she starts. “You know how I was born shortly after Patrick, Irish twins and all that?”
Rage settles in his stomach, the reminder of her birthday passing without any recognition from her family. The tears that stained her cheeks, the admission that she thought this year would be different. It had turned around, dinner with Lizzie and the gift of her puppy, Claudius, brightening her spirits. But he knows all too well that presents and cake cannot erase the wounds of abandonment. Nodding, he urges her to continue.
“Well, it was really hard on mummy, having two children so young. And Nan, well, daideo had just passed and she was so lonely. We were living in Dublin at the time, only a few hours away, so Nan started watching Paddy and I, a few days at a time.” She takes a breath then, a shuddering thing that makes her lip quiver. “And Patrick, he got into a really good daycare in the city. They only had space for one child, so I kept coming to Nan’s. And one day I just…never left.”
He has so many questions, none of them for Taggie. Part of him is inclined to charter a flight back to Rutshire, to knock down Declan’s door until he answers every query to Rupert’s satisfaction. Why did they leave her? Why not send her to daycare, work harder to find a place in the city for her? How young was she, how could they? Taggie must notice the frustration on his face, the rage roiling within him, and she scoots across the couch, throwing her legs across his lap until they are pressed together.
“I had a really good childhood here,” she whispers, both hands now clutching one of his. “Nan is, well, you’ve met her. She was everything to me, my mamó and my best friend. I never felt lonely with her. It was only when everyone came, for Christmas and Easter, that I realized things weren’t normal.”
“It really is your room,” Rupert realizes, images of a tiny Taggie curled up on the upstairs window seat watching her mother and father leave her behind wrenching his heart to pieces. He doesn’t want to pry, knowing the wounds of her childhood may have been stitched back together but were still so tender. “Oh, my darling.”
“It’s ok. I was always Nan’s favourite.” Her voice is light, making jokes as if her tragic tale hasn’t rendered him completely speechless.
“You don’t have to joke about it. Not with me, never with me. You can be angry” Squeezing her hands, he watches his words process slowly. When was the last time someone told her she could get mad, be anything other than pleasant and perfect? Certainly not since they moved to Rutshire, the role of daughter usurped by breadwinner and head of household, wearing her down until she was thin at the edges. He can see the change in her, after a year of aggressive campaigning and managing her father. The roundness has left her face, still beautiful but sharper. Her jeans fit looser, a belt always tucked around her hips as of late, the only thing keeping them from falling down.
She needs to eat more, he thinks. Not just scraps after parties and meetings, but full meals. He makes a note to confer with Nan, copy out her favourite recipes for his own collection. Last nights stew had been perfect, she had gone back for seconds and sopped up the liquid with the crusts of her bread. I am going to take care of her, he vows, another promise added to his collection.
“Can I ask something else,” he starts, watching as she starts to fade under his eyes. More food, more naps. She nods, head coming to rest on his shoulder. It fits perfectly on the curve of his collarbone, as if she was designed specifically to curl up against him. “You seem more confident here. Less nervous, you—”
“I don’t stutter here.” Not beating around the bush, Taggie finishes his thought. “Never have, not here. I think it’s because I never felt I needed to impress Nan. Mummy and Daddy, they were so smart, loved plays and poems that I never had a chance of reading. But here, that stuff doesn’t matter. Book smarts are useless when a barn goes down, or the harvest is bad.” She gives a little shrug, Aengus letting out a soft meow at the movement. “Just how it is, I guess.”
“You make me nervous,” Rupert confesses, letting himself rest his head on hers. “Your goodness, your light. I fear what will happen when you discover how rotten I am inside. The memoirs, they are only a portion of that.”
Part of him yearns to confess it all, the dark parts of him that he wanted to keep hidden. But more than that, he wants to pry himself open, an oyster for her to tear apart. She deserves to know every inch of him, the good and bad, dark and light.
Sighing, she leans further into his chest. “I think you’re a good man. And even good men make mistakes.” When she pauses, Aengus and his rumbling purrs filling the silence between them, he fears what else she may say. The various ways she may take him apart, expose the rot underneath his shiny exterior. “I don’t want you to be perfect. I just want you to be honest with me. That’s it.”
God, he never wants to live in a world where Taggie O’Hara stops surprising him. “I can do that. I will, for as long as you want. I’m an open book, angel.”
“The only one I can read,” she says with a laugh, lifting Aengus to her chest and pressing a kiss to his little pink nose. He was never a cat person, always preferring to comfort of his dogs, but watching her with this one makes him yearn to fill his house with kittens just to see her smile.
They stay curled up on the couch for a bit longer, chatting idly and throwing a little mouse toy for the cat to chase. By the time Nan returns, a little white lamb tucked in her arms, Taggie has fallen asleep, draped across his lap. He lifts a finger to his lips, trying to protect her peace for as long as possible.
“You’re a good man.” Nan says it quietly, the lamb still bundled against her chest. It is also asleep, long lashes brushing its delicate cheeks, astoundingly similar to the angel sleeping in his arms. The comparison makes him smile, brushing a stray curl from Taggie’s cheek. She snuffles a bit under his touch, not fully stirring.
“Do you need a hand?” He is reluctant to wake Taggie, but leaving her grandmother with a lamb in her arms seems equally awful. The woman deserves a moment to take her coat off at least. She nods gratefully, watching with a soft smile as he maneuvers Taggie out of his lap, a pillow wedged under her head in his absence. “Here, hand it over.”
“It’s a girl,” she murmurs, gently transferring the sleepy creature to his arms. “Born early, rejected by her mother.” His heart lurches at her words, gaze turning back to Taggie. Poor little lamb, he thinks, both of them.
When Taggie wakes, twenty minutes later, she rubs her eyes and gasps with delight, the pure joy in her expression making his heart race. “Oh, look at that baby,” she coos, scrambling to the floor where the little lamb rests in its makeshift pen. “Is it a girl? Do we have a sweater for her?”
Nan laughs, looking up from the book in her lap. “A little lady, yes. I know you like to name them, but I thought Rupert ought to get a chance. The sweaters are in the barn, you can pick one out after lunch.”
A little frown appears on Taggie’s face at that, brows pulled together. “Oh, you should have woke me sooner, I didn’t prepare anything for lunch.”
Clearing his throat, he gives her a wave from the kitchen. “Now, I may not be Rutshire’s most celebrated caterer,” he starts, delighting in the shy look that covers her face. “But I am known to put together a decent Ploughman’s. I hope it meets your satisfaction, angel.”
“Now he’s definitely earned the right to name the lamb,” Nan says with a grin. He almost doesn’t notice her words, too distracted by the rush of Taggie’s arms wrapping around his neck, thank you muttered quietly in his ear.
⋆˙⟡
Rupert names the lamb Bonnie, a little purple vest tucked around her tiny frame. It makes her stomach heat, watching him care for this tender creature, delicately holding the lamb as he feeds it from a bottle.
“They should put this on your telly network,” Nan murmurs, equally entranced by him. “You’d get the whole bloody country tuning in.”
She agrees, but selfishly wants to keep this for herself. This version of Rupert, the one who laughs freely and coos when the lamb dribbles milk on his hand, is for her only. The vultures of the world don’t deserve him, people on both sides of the franchise bid who cackled with glee as he fell from grace.
His arms flex, muscles bunching under his tan skin, and Taggie forces herself to hold back a moan. She’s had all kinds of dirty dreams about the man in front of her, indoors and outdoors, all kinds of sweaty, athletic positions mixed with tender caresses and words that she yearned to hear him murmur in her ear. None of those dreams compare to reality, to watching him bottle feed a lamb with that tender look in his eye.
Thank god Nan had dinner covered, cheese toasties and tomato soup to fill their bellies. Taggie is certain she’d burn water, so distracted by the vision in front of her. Suddenly, the lamb bleats softly, tossing its head back and squirming from Rupert’s arms. He just laughs, catching Bonnie easily and bringing her to his chest. She settles there, head tucked against his neck.
“Someone just wanted a cuddle,” Rupert murmurs, giving the lamb a soft kiss on the nose. “Isn’t that right, my Bonnie lass?”
“Lass is Scottish, you numpty.” Nan’s voice breaks through to Taggie, disturbing the lovely daydream of Rupert murmuring someone wanted a cuddle as he transferred a baby to her arms. She could almost feel the weight of it, hear the soft coos of a child and the pressure of a ring on her finger. The daydreams keep her going, through the franchise battle and the sight of Cameron Cook on his arm.
She has no ill-will for the other woman, remembers the panic that set in when she arrived at the Priory in June with bloodstained hands and a shaky voice, the story of Tony’s brutal attack unfolding over cups of tea. Cameron is strong, courageous, bold. Words that have never described Taggie, despite her best efforts. She is destined for a soft life, has always known that her heart lay with homemaking and child-raising. Not like Cameron Cook, who commands rooms and could lead an army. The franchise team hung on every word from her, only crawling back to Taggie when they needed a hot meal or laundry done.
Not all of them. Not Rupert, who hung back after meetings to help tidy up and arrived early to make sure her father hadn’t wasted away in the night. Rupert, who handed Declan bottles of top-shelf liquor that he watered down, knowing the burden of a drunk father was too much for her to bear.
Bonnie bleats again, a happy little noise as she burrows deeper into his embrace. Me too, Taggie thinks. I feel happiest when held by Rupert too.
When the clock strikes eleven that night, dinner long finished and cups of tea gone cold, Nan takes the lamb to bed. “I’m sure we’ll be up with the sun,” she murmurs, a fond hand stroking the lamb’s back. “But so was my Taggie today. You’ll make her lie in tomorrow, won’t you, Rupert?”
Her eyes twinkle at the statement, laughing lightly as Rupert flushes at her words. “I’ll do my best,” he chokes out, eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling. “But I don’t think anyone can force Tag into anything. She’s a force to be reckoned with.”
“Very true. I think you’ve got a few tricks up your sleeve, however. Unless those memoirs were lying—”
“Good night, mamo!” She shouldn’t cut Nan off, the ghost of her mother scolding her for interrupting her elders, but she can’t help it. Not when Nan is suggesting that Rupert seduce her into sleeping in, the thought tempting and forbidden.
Maybe not forbidden. Her father isn’t here, forcing himself in between them at every chance he gets. He doesn’t seem to know they’re here, the note she left neatly folded on the kitchen table confirming their location. If he’d known, he certainly would have called. If he cared, he would call.
By the time Nan’s footsteps have faded, Rupert has finished busying himself in the kitchen, returning with fresh mugs. “Something a bit stronger than tea,” he says with a wink, handing her the mug decorated with a butterfly. The pink paint has faded, one of the wings chipped slightly, but it’s still in decent shape. If she looked at the bottom, she knows she would find her name in crooked, childish letters.
“Y’know,” she hums, taking a sip of whatever Rupert had poured her. It burns going down, heat settling into her stomach. Brandy, she thinks, the good stuff. “I painted this mug. Never thought I’d be having a nightcap in it.”
“God, I really am corrupting you,” Rupert grumbles, swallowing his own drink in one go. “Next you’ll tell me about waiting up for Santa in your footie pyjamas.”
“Are there any other kind?” Shooting him a wry smile, she leaves her mug on the coffee table and moves to the bookcase. “I know that today was…a lot,” she starts, finger brushing the spines of a dozen books until she finds what she is looking for. “But I really was happy here. Happier then I would have been in Dublin, that’s for sure.” Pulling the thick album from the shelf, she turns back to him. “We have a lot of photos, if you’d like to see—”
“Please.” The word leaves his lips before she can finish her sentence, eyes wide. “I mean, only if you want to.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.” Their dynamics have switched, Rupert at her mercy for once. Any other time it would make her laugh, the idea of this larger than life man desperate for small glimpses of her life. But right now, when he’s far from home, his children celebrating the holidays unaware that he was falling to pieces, she would tear herself apart if it meant keeping him together. The exact opposite of what her mother advised, she thinks with a laugh, placing the album in Rupert’s waiting hands. She was never very good at listening to mummy.
He opens the book carefully, every page treated with a gentle reverence. The first few photos she knows well, a squalling red baby in a bassinet, a little pink hat covering a bald head. Her Nan’s writing underneath the photo, Agatha Maud in curling calligraphy along with her birth statistics. “You were so small,” Rupert murmurs, eyes moving slowly over the photos. “Only four pounds?”
Legs hugged to her chest, she nods. “I was early, the labour was hard. Nearly killed my mum, or so she likes to tell people. Me, mostly.”
“Marcus was small too.” It’s quiet, barely more than a whisper, but intentional. She shifts over on the couch, until they are hip to hip, the book spread across both their laps. There is no reason to hold space, she thinks, not here. Nan’s cottage is the only place in the world she can be herself, no pretending or masking her flaws. She lets her head fall to his shoulder, knowing that a response isn’t needed.
Each page is turned reverently, as if Rupert treasures the reveal of each photo. She watches herself age with each passing page, interlacing the photos with memories of each moment. Her first steps, taken outside the barn. Her first words, spoken worryingly late but impactful: Nan, then cat. He laughs until tears stream from his eyes when he reaches the bowl cut photos, a grumpy Taggie standing beside Susan.
“I didn’t know donkeys could look smug,” he pants, laughter echoing in each word. “Good lord, I see why she’s your nemesis.”
At some point, between photos of Christmas 1973 and Taggie’s sixth birthday, they start sharing stories. Little things, the first time they broke a bone and their childhood dreams. Rupert lived his, an Olympic Gold sitting in his office at home, but he confesses that he wishes it had been under better circumstances. “I look at that medal and all I can think of is Helen leaving. It was time, we both knew it, but I wish I could feel more pride. Pushed through to the next games or something.”
“Your knees would be even creakier,” she murmurs, watching as he fakes outrage at her words. “What? It’s not a secret. Even Nan noticed earlier.”
He huffs out a laugh, draining the rest of his mug. One night cap had turned into multiple pours, the liquid courage lighting up Taggie’s veins. It’s what pushes her to ask, voice low and eyes wide, if he ever wanted more children. Presumptuous, her word of the day, spoken in the same tone her mother used to shame her. She wants to take it back as soon as she says it, watching as his eyes dim slightly.
“I don’t deserve the children I have,” he says sadly. It ends their conversation, air turning stale as they both sit with his answer. She wants to argue with him, tell him that a father who cared as much as he did could never be bad. But there are shades of him that match Declan O’Hara, the workaholic tendencies that left her waiting up on her birthday for phone calls that never came.
“People can change,” she reminds him. He has already, blooming into a man who gives more than he takes. But he just shakes his head, patting her knee and thanking her for sharing the photos, before slowly making his way up the stairs.
That night, she wakes to the sound of gasping breaths, tears being stifled into a pillow. Shoulders shaking, the very same pair that always held the world up for her. Scooting closer, she wraps her arms around his waist. “I’m sorry,” Taggie whispers, hand reaching up until she catches one of his. “I shouldn’t have asked—that was a m-mistake. You’re a good father.”
“I’m not,” Rupert chokes, clutching her hand like a lifeline. “I’m not, I abandoned them. Will they ever forgive me?”
Taggie can’t predict the future. She struggles enough with the present, with hidden meanings and metaphors twisting people’s words into something utterly unknown. But now, in the dark of her childhood bedroom with Rupert in her arms, she knows a few things with certainty. “They will. They love you. You have so much time left with them.”
They leave certain questions unasked and unanswered. Does she forgive her parents? How long did it take? Will either of them ever feel whole again? Instead, she hums softly, Christmas carols and church hymns that she remembers from childhood, even the Four Men Went to Mow theme song when she runs out of melodies. A gentle, quiet hum until his breathing evens out, sleep making his face lax. Her hand remains in his, held tightly until morning.
⋆˙⟡
Declan calls the next morning. He almost misses it, too engrossed with the bags under Taggie’s eyes and the flush of embarrassment that colours his own cheeks. He should apologize, buy a bouquet bigger than her head and beg her to forget his midnight breakdown. She would, the gracious angel that she is, but maybe it’s better that she doesn’t. That she knows the things that haunt him, the nightmares of his children growing up and hating him. The worst ones involve Taggie, visions of her fleeing Rutshire with her carpet bag and tear-stained face, all because of him.
Nan answers the phone, a smirk on her lips as soon as the caller starts talking. “Declan Ewan, I know you weren’t raised in a barn! Watch your language.”
A giggle escapes Taggie, chewing her toast slowly and slipping the crusts under the table to the cat. He still hasn’t seen the black and white cat, Roger, but he hears him at night. Pitiful meows echo as he roams the hall, little gifts of catnip mice and small pieces of tissue paper left outside Taggie’s door like offerings. Befriending the shy cat is his new goal, he thinks. Forget the franchise, this is the real challenge.
The conversation is one-sided, made even more mysterious by the steady stream of Irish from Nan. Taggie can understand some of it, her eyes flickering to her grandmother every so often, but even she looks puzzled. It isn’t until the phone is slammed down, Nan reaching for her cup of tea with a gruff mumble, that the light leaves her eyes.
“Did he mention if he found my note,” Taggie asks quietly, something about her tone suggesting she knew the answer. Nan gives her a sad smile, head shaking slightly.
“He interrogated Rupert’s aide, found out through him. Seems you missed a rather important meeting, son.”
He did, the gruelling schedule of interview prep and revision flashing through his mind. It doesn’t matter in the slightest, not when Taggie’s face falls at the thought of her father not noticing her absence. Tears well in her eyes, silvery and viscous, wiped away but a hurried hand. “I should go check on Bonnie,” she mumbles, barely stopping to pull a coat on over her pyjamas before leaving through the back door. It hurts to watch, the devastation plain on her face underneath the smile she pasted on.
“I love my son,” Nan says quietly, walking through the kitchen and tidying idly. There’s no real mess, their breakfast of tea and toast leaving only a few crumbs to wipe up, but he understands her need to keep busy. “But he never deserved that girl. Mo stóirín, it means my little treasure, you know. And she is, my treasure. She kept me going, after my Callum passed. But I couldn’t be it all, mother, father, and grandmother.”
“She adores you. We went through an album last night, baby photos and birthdays, said she was never happier than when she was here.” He knows it to be true, the light in Taggie’s eyes growing brighter every day they spend in the cottage. Part of him thinks he could give everything else up, the cushy government job and big estate, the life of being rich and famous traded for a small cottage if it made Taggie happy. Anything to keep her happy.
Sighing, Nan gives him a gentle smile. “Patrick and Caitlin, they take after their parents. Creative, bold. I love them dearly. But Taggie, Taggie was mine, my darling girl. And I don’t think I’ll ever forgive my son for how he’s treated her.”
It spills out of him then, a confession that he has held for the better part of a year. “I love her. Not as a friend, or Declan’s daughter. I love her, exactly as she is. I just pray that I get the chance to show her.”
He has dreamt about it, their future together. A big white wedding some nights, a small courthouse ceremony others. Children, one or two in addition to Marcus and Tab, as well as versions of their life where it’s just the two of them and the dogs. Every version of their future has played out in his mind, so vivid that he often wakes and reaches for her, only to find cold sheets beneath his fingertips. All of this spills from him, words flowing as Nan just stares, her gaze soft.
When he runs out of words, eyes pricking with the suggestion of tears, the older woman pulls him into a hug. “You’re a good man,” she mutters, voice rough with emotion. “I don’t trust many people, not where Taggie is concerned. She hurts easily, as I’m sure you know. But I won’t be around forever. I trust you will do right by her.”
It’s as close to a blessing as he will ever get, his heart swelling at her words. “We’ll take care of you too,” he tells the woman, letting his arms drop from the hug as Taggie’s voice sounds just outside the door. A little bleat follows, Bonnie the lamb making her presence known. Their conversation ends as the subject stumbles in, cheeks pink from the wind and eyes brightened.
“Look at her wool,” Taggie coos, the lamb held close to her chest. “She’s already looking better, isn’t she?” The grin that spreads across her face is radiant, glowing so brightly that Rupert tells her to stay put, darting upstairs to grab his camera so that he can capture the moment.
She doesn’t move, coat still wrapped around her as Bonnie bleats in her arms. He’s grateful he thought to bring a camera, his beloved Kodak loaded with film as he snaps a photo of her. “Ok, Nan, get in there with her.” Rupert directs them both, watching as their eyes light up and arms curl around each other. It didn’t escape his notice the night before that there were very few photos of Taggie with Nan, most of the images single shots of either woman. It leads to him wandering the cottage that day, capturing candid photos of the two of them together.
Taggie and Nan on the couch, heads pressed together as they giggled like schoolgirls. In the kitchen, pouring tea and plating biscuits. Even on an afternoon walk through town, he keeps his camera trained on them, capturing the little moments that he knows will turn into the fondest memories. Noting the film shop in town, he resolves to get the photos developed before they leave. It’s the least he can do, Rupert thinks, watching as a neighbour stops the women to chat. This peace they have given him, their precious world opened up to include his sorry arse, is invaluable.